Misery Business
by katharsis0001
Summary: Sharon Sanchez is a killer. But who she is and what she does isn't all that appears to be. WHAT, she is, well, that's the difference between the end of the world as everyone knows it, or the beginning of a brave new world that no one is ready for. The choice is hers. The choice is up to her. But will it be the right one?


[1] 'F' is for 'fuck'; 'y' is for 'you'

_Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'…into the future…_

I hum this little song in my head again, mostly to pass the time as I wait for my fate, for the world to turn again on its wobbly axis or for Atlas to shrug a little more deeply and unsettle this dull little moment in my life. I yawn, scratch the itch on my middle finger and try to shake off my shackles. No joy.

Oh, how proud these chains must be! Imprisoning such a fiend like me.

I smile neatly to myself, an empty, hollow sort of mischief hitches upon my lips. The cuts rip back open. The warmth of my blood is a warning. It sings to me: you are strong; you will die, but not today. No. Not today. I am a shade passing through the light of the world. I know what I am. No illusions. I don't allow it to affect me. I can't afford to.

Nothing makes me happier than when I am tackling multiple problems at one time and when the perilous is at hand. And while this imprisonment thing is boring the everlasting fuck out of me, well, I have no choice. I am here out of circumstances out of my control. Old plans have been discarded, new ones drawn up. I'm sure of it. So it's the waiting game now.

I tug at the sleeve of my heinous prison jumper. It fits loosely on my frame, smells oddly of decay, mothballs and old sweat, like discarded skin. Metal grates against metal against bone as I shift in my stiff chair. The heavy, thick stainless steel contraption starts around my ankles, also cuffed and a bar attaches them together. Chains from the exterior sides of my conjoined ankles snake up and is attached to a thick leather belt around my waist then more chains to my cuffs and extends to an even longer chain, which in turn is attached to a thick metal hook embedded in the middle of the heavy bolted down metal table. No space between metal and skin, metal grinding into bone.

Overkill. Though I'm incredibly flattered. The depths of my depravity must be serious indeed. I suppose any first-class villainess should expect nothing less than such wonderful hospitality.

I raise my cuffed wrists to itch a spot on my nose, smelling something coppery. I check my nails. There is dirt, and dried blood embedded in my cuticles. Is that my blood? Or the stain of a dozen lives I've taken? Does it matter? I'm not so certain anymore. I stare at my hands, the bruises black and the cuts drying out. My entire body is on fire, in pain. I could heal myself but the drugs they have been giving me leaves me itching, everywhere, and my ability to self-heal isn't fully functioning. Plus, I must conserve, in case things go really wrong.

Thinking back, I should have gone right but the voice in my head told me to go left, and I did. And so, ran right into the arms of my enemy. No matter. I'm not worried. Yet. I stare ahead, then up, around, to the ground. Clear, white light reflects off the pale silver white table. My eyes begin to burn when I stare at the walls for too long. I suspect the white walls, the white floor, the blindingly white ceiling and the pale silver-white furniture is supposed to intimidate me. My bosses employ the same thing: reverse psychology.

White against white, an absence of something. A little bit of dark is good for the soul. The quiet eggs on, also waiting, bidding its time to be let out. The storm will wait, it must. As I must wait. Timing is everything, but timing is never perfect. It doesn't have to be.

I watch the white walls play tricks on me and I wait some more. I think about today, tomorrow, right now, never backwards. Then I hear it. Gears and the clatter of hard-soled and deliberate footfalls on a metal catwalk. I've heard that sound before, like music to my filtered ears.

Finally. The show will at last commence.

I sit back, battle worn weary but eager too. My chains shake, rattle and roll. I wait with sweet anticipation. A door opens (the only [white] one) and man in a fitted, all black suit, enters. He emotes nothing, reveals not a thing. He is a wall; he is all confidence. He doesn't hide who he is; I see it all there. Nothing will reach him, least of all little ole me. I tilt my head back, I take him in, all of him, always impressed by his impeccability. Even before I joined Janus, who have hammered and drilled into me what I am—a tool, their weapon, their muscle in their gun clip—Morris has always been there. A constant roving star following the tail of a falling comet that never seems to land though I'd like to think I always make an impact. At times, I feel like he's been chasing after me my whole life.

In fiction, there is a plot and a story. The plot is about the overall picture and action. The…distracting but _cool_ stuff. The story is about the dance between the two main characters, the Hero and the Heroine, be it the good guy, the seemingly bad or the truly evil. The story is the more tedious parts that most skim over but it's the most important. That's what we all forget.

"Good to see you again, honey. Miss me?" Absolutely no response, no reaction, nothing. I smile at him. He doesn't. The cuts on my lip are still open and I can feel a little trickle falling down my chin. It doesn't bother him. He sees, and cares not. No bleeding heart, this one. Chains rattling, I gesture for him to take a seat, take a break with me, to take my breath away with his words and chilly demeanor.

His name is Morris, an ambiguous word. I don't like it much but I've yet to bestow upon him a worthy, hero name. But for now, he is just Morris. We are two players in a never-ending cycle, a complicated chess match that has been going on for decades between my people, and his. There are degrees of good and bad. I don't know where I fall; if Morris does, someday I might be able to ask. In any case, he's just part of the end game but we all are and if we're both lucky, we will not become casualties of war, as collateral damage.

No matter. I am where I need to be, the right part of an Unacknowledged Special Access Program compound in West Virginia. We are deep underground, under the forest wilderness and in the middle of nowhere. If I were to scream, methinks the white walls would deflect appropriately.

Morris watches me like a machine, detached, unemotional and completely focused. I admire that, I really do. I should probably hate Morris, who's been nothing but trouble for me, but I don't. I don't hate anyone. People like Morris and I don't hate, or really love. We just get in each other's way and get under each other's skin; but always, we work the job. We appreciate each other's wiliness.

His expression is carefully attenuated as his gaze bears down at me. His body language, mercurial; the whole package, enigmatic. Here is the Hero of our story. He. Me. Circling each other likes hawks in the rain over dead prey, or the sun pulling at the planet into its motion and path toward annihilation. It is infinite, cosmic destruction on an epic scale that no one notices.

His step is silent but there is an energy haloing him. He is a couple inches above six feet, wide shoulders, broad chest and lean everywhere else. I sit up a little straighter. His skin is light but slightly golden, like he enjoys the sun and has a life outside of this white room. The face is oval, the bridge of his nose is narrow, cheekbones are set high but flat, and a bit hollowed, like he hasn't been eating enough. Dark eyebrows sit over hooded dark green eyes. There is a shine to his dark brown hair, which is cut pseudo-military but not too severe, not at all sloppy. Fine lines sit at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth. I imagine he does a lot of automatic frowning and squinting at something like me.

Morris's gaze sweeps around the room, then to my hands and the chain and the hook, then lastly, to me. Like times before, he stares _into_ me, like he's searching for something. I don't know what he is searching for when he looks at me. All I know is that it doesn't exist.

Intrigued, I watch his face, power is in his eyes and control everywhere else. A defined jaw is kept smooth and tension free; his upper lip is slightly thinner than his bottom and below, a slight dimple sits gently in his chin. Nothing seethes, there is no coiled rage ready to bite, there is nothing to be unleashed. Not yet. His need for subtle power, that sublime control, is part of his strength. It adds to his charisma. He is completely unmoved by anything and anyone. And yet, he pulls at me and I want to consume him like he might make me live forever. I am in love all over again, and he didn't even have to speak a word. I almost smile. A man who doesn't speak. What more could a worldly, soulless woman like myself want?

This is the face of a man with eyes made out of stone, who knows what he wants, won't take 'no' for an answer and doesn't say his please and thank yous to just anyone. Especially not a piece of scrap like me.

I stare at contours of his lovely face, a face that haunts my dreams. If he'd worn sleek, sci-fi edged sunglasses, I might have thought I was in the unimaginative and clichéd movie. If only we both had cooler names with philosophical and mythological meaning, and at the end, I can just conveniently unplug myself from one reality into the next and in reality, he and I are lovers. The modern, gun-metal version of Romeo and Juliet. Funny thought, that.

He's left the jacket open and I see no holster and gun, no hidden weapon, just a masculine body in a nice black suit. I know he does not carry while in these interrogation rooms. He keeps things civil. He will talk me down, not pistol whip me until I beg for mercy. He knows that method won't word. In our sphere of existence, Morris represent the other side, the side of the supposed good or the not so bad with ethics and rules of engagement, which in turn includes treating prisoners with some humanity, I suppose one wouldn't need to bring any weapon during interrogation. It would be…so distasteful.

My people don't have that problem. My people always come armed at every meeting, agreed upon or forced. Heavily armed, when forced.

In all this white, he is like a cardboard cut out. Me? I'm just disfiguring the black and white symmetry of our shared gray world. Now, I must rise to the challenge and play my bit part. We are foes. We must act accordingly.

He continues to stand by the door, as though reminding me who holds my freedom in the back of his pocket. He is asserting his dominance, his control, the trajectory of this interrogation. My future is in his hands. My life, it's his to do what he wills. In terms of posturing, he follows the old adage that less is more.

I've always liked that calm because the calm always promises hell to come, an end to the moment and forward progress. Someday, I would like to see him in his rage, to see him come undone. Though we are immune to each other's charms, for the most part, like always, my eyes seem to find his, like a magnet. Our eyes meet, we stare, and stare, unblinkingly.

We've done this dance before, from a distance but also up close and personal, face-to-face and within touching distance. We have a history, him and I, a history of pirouetting around each other for over six years. Between him and me, however, at its basic level, this is a merely a simple game we play: I run. He chases. I evade; he tries really hard to stop me. But I am a good runner; I admit, he is a great chaser. I am glad that an individual of his caliber has been after me for so long is such a worthy opponent. I want nothing less. I expect nothing less.

He still stands there, a man of worth, a man with unquestionable authority. The sliver of the known outside word is a void of black at his back, like nothing else exists behind him. He holds nothing in his hands, his expression, passive but observant. Or so I assign. It's a pity, his face is too interesting to be left as a blank slate.

Like me, Morris is an operative but unlike me, he is a 'good guy'. He is an unacknowledged agent for the United States government. I am not. I am a world citizen on a schedule and I do not answer to governments. I answer to power, it's name is Janus Corporation.

Morris steps forward. His hands are loosely still at his side. I stare up at him. The door closes on its own accord, slowly until it bangs shut. He walks up to the table. Quietly, he pulls the other lone metal chair that sits directly across from me away from the table, and with economic grace, sits down, all without breaking his eye-to-eye stare contest with me. There are no sounds, no indication where this white room is, in this black void. I feel like there's just nothing all around me, us. This room is like a bright galaxy drifting in the dark matter of space, this place. Is he a black hole? Am I a wandering particle of dust he is about to lay to waste?

I incline my head, a slight, welcoming smile on my dry lips.

"Sharon Sanchez."

Question, statement or accusation? He says my name like a quick exhale, like he can't wait to get ride of the air that cushions the consonant and vowels that make up that one word, my name. His stare bores into my head. I am beginning to understand the doomed and fatalistic dark irony of Shakespeare's tragedies—twisted affectation morphing into train wrecks.

"Janus Corporation."

His voice is a little raspy, a little deep. It makes him even more attractive to me. I rest my arms on the thin, metal armrests. Clang, clang, go my cuffs. I stare at his lovely, strong hands. Short nails, clean, strong fingers. His knuckles are worn and frayed. I lift my gaze to meet his.

He leans forward slightly, hands folded loosely on the table. "What was your directive?"

It's always the same. I'm a solider. I follow orders. I know nothing more. I look at Morris, and for a second, I'm burnout and tired. I stare at the space behind him.

"Was the Duke your primary target?"

"Everyone's a target," I answer. I drum my fingers on the table. "It's just a matter of when."

"Do you always kill so indiscriminately?"

"Life is imperfect. People die," I tell him, staring at his throat. "No one is immune."

"Why?"

Simple question. Complicated answer. The doors of perception are one and many but mostly, I want to live. Survival is never pretty and it's a game of one against one. Things fall apart. We all must deal with it as best we can. Everything else is subject to interpretation.

I meet Morris's eyes. I am what I am, and yes, I do kill people. More than I should be allowed to. Why do I do what I do? At this point, what I do is due to the nature of what I have become. And thus, killers kill, there is no elegance or deeper meaning, just the mission and that usually involves killing and dying, preferably their side before ours. I am not here to save the world. Does that make me a monster? Maybe. But I can live with that if it allows me to fight on.

Morris moves on. "The primary objective, tell me."

"It's the same. It never changes, it doesn't vary," I tell him. "I do what I'm told. Eliminate this target, that one." I pause, briefly. "Just like you. I am a soldier, I follow orders. Do I need another reason?"

The pall of his gaze heavy, his voice soft, even gentle. Lethal. "The people you work for; their interests." He pauses. "The people they collaborate with, their interests."

Yes. Janus. They are the people I work for. They are the types who expect to get what they want, always, no questions, no room for excuses. I say nothing. We both know who they are. What they do. But I know what he really means. He wants me to vomit every tidbit of Intel I know about them. Mainly, just the specifics. I hope he doesn't really think he's broken me. I'm not that easy. I can deal with pain.

I look at his hands, how relaxed they are, fingers laced together. I like the way he talks, the way his mouth moves. I like how every phrase is never a question but a statement, a soft demand. His tone is persistently calm, smooth; he enunciates clearly and doesn't try to verbally subdue me. He takes his time. A little thrilling shiver slithers through me. I like how he never blinks, doesn't move at all, just stares me down as though he is trying to see _me_, the real me inside, into my soul. He isn't going to find much. At least nothing he'll like. Then again, who knows? Anything is possible when you hold the world in the palm of your hand.

Dimly and unclearly, I see the soft underside of his chin reflecting off the surface of the table. I think about the other weak breaking points on a human body that doesn't discriminate between female or male, size or experience. "Do you ever experience pain, Morris?" I meet his gaze.

"Felix Surnow," he says instead. "He's involved with Janus."

Morris is wrong. Surnow _is_ Janus. He is the man behind the glass curtain. He wants to draw the map of the world in his own image. Until he's reached critical mass, he's not safe from attack by his detractors and those who covet his position. I'm pretty sure hellfire runs in his veins.

"Who else did you kill that night?" he asks, switching topics on me again.

Just a lot of your friends, I think to myself. "No one important, I'm sure."

I could ask him my own questions, like what their directive was, their primary objective. How had he known we'd be there when we had more than just tactical skill to help us succeed? What did the Duke have that so interested both our sides?

"Ciroc Petracca," he says. "He did business with the Duke. Janus tried to recruit him but he refused. Is that why you killed the Duke?"

Petracca is Cyprian. Rich. Powerful. And current president of Elder Global, a pharmaceutical juggernaut with deep pockets and questionable ethics. The Duke had been a long-standing board member of Systems Integrated, a forward-thinking tech firm.

I say nothing. There is nothing to say. Morris is right, about everything. If you don't join our side, we will destroy you. We will destroy everything surrounding you. No exceptions.

"What does Surnow want with SI?"

Surnow is interested in everything, probably to the same degree that Morris's people are. Fifty years ago, SI used to be _the_ dominant technology company in Europe, originally interested in merging technology and medicine, eventually becoming leaders in developing organics with electronics. More recently, genetic research and nanotechnology has become their mainstay.

If Morris is becoming impatient with my non-answers, or no answers, he hides it well. Somewhere from above and around, there is a click and a voice floods the room. "Sir."

The voice is flat and perfunctory but edged with peek-a-boo agitation. Through the speaker, there are sounds of danger lurking, fast approaching. I hear it. I can feel it slouching toward us.

"What is it?" Morris demands, eyes never faltering off of me.

"Outer perimeter has been breached by unidentified hostiles, sir."

"I'm busy," Morris says without concern, eyes still steady as the sun. "Deal with it."

"Yes, sir."

I smile at him. I can't help it. "Anything I can do, Morris?"

"You've done enough."

A voice tries to come through the intercom again but it's garbled and broken. A hiss, then a hard click. Boom. _BOOM_. B-o-o-m. I feel the table move, the earth shatter. With each shake of the walls, I'm betting that I'm about to be saved. I'm happy as a peach that I might be rescued for there are no certainties of life. It's always possible I was going to be left here because Janus does not hold to the motto of leaving no one behind. Then again, these hostiles could be different hostiles that I don't know, or they are from Janus, sent here to eliminate me in case I've compromised them.

Boom-shaka-shaka-shaka-boom. _Boom_. A big rumble shakes the room, and I mean, really shakes the room like it's about to crack apart. The table stutters and I can feel the subtle vibration shimmy up the metal of my seat and tingle my ass. Another rumble, more shuddering, stuttering and tingling.

"I guess this is goodbye," he says, turning his head slightly at another loud explosion. "Sounds like you're friends have finally joined the party."

"Yes," I agree. "But this was lovely."

Morris doesn't move a muscle. He just _stares_ at me, which is his way. He leans forward again, changing his body position. Before I realize it, he jerks my chain, forcing me forward and my arms reaching toward the middle of the table, reaching toward him. He stares at my hands for a long time, than my face. I can feel his breath floating toward me. I breathe him in. He breathes me out. I look into his eyes; I see his soul. He looks into mine; I don't hope that he sees something. I stopped hoping long ago.

"There is a line and at some point, you have to realize that."

"That's your problem, Morris, you see limitations. I don't have that luxury," I say, feeling a small tremor shimmy up my chair and through me. "You taught me that, remember? That was our first lesson together."

He regards me for a moment, then, "You whimper in your sleep." It is sudden and completely out of nowhere. "Almost every night…actually, it was every night."

Strategy is vital, be it psychological or by munitions. Subtlety is everything. "You waited too long to strike, if that is what you are attempting. You're words won't amaze me."

_Three._

"We close our eyes," he returns, quietly, "and in our dreams, all is revealed. Truth. Fear. The past and future, intertwined."

_Two_.

"Fear?" I scoff. "I'll show you all that, and more, in a handle of dust. Blood, too, Morris. You don't even have to ask."

_One._

"And the truth?"

The door, the white one, explodes, nearly thrown from its hinges. Black turns to a haze of smoke and fire. A wide, dark-clad figure armed to the teeth emerges, his facemask reminding me of a freakish alien. At least I know this alien. Morris doesn't jump in surprise or turn around to see who's invaded our private meeting. Stupid or brave?

"There's no such thing."

"I'll hunt you down to any corner of this earth," Morris says, almost pleasantly, carelessly and ignoring the disruption behind him, "into hell itself if that's what it takes."

God he's so poetic. I love that in a man. I grin at him, my best devil-may-care grin. "I like being chased, Morris. Any girl does."

I scoot my chair back so abruptly a screech erupts like fireworks, echoing gratingly off the walls. I flinch, too, just a little. The chain slaps his hand away and he shifts back, his hands touched with red. He looks at me, still as stone, still as a cold statue in a long forgotten graveyard. Yes, I may have my freedom now but I don't have much time.

With poise and finesse, he stands up, buttons his suit jacket and turns around in one elegant motion, facing my savior. He takes a few steps back creating a triangle between me and the door. He looks on without even a blink of shock or a choked expression. No surprise.

Jimbo pulls off his mask, revealing a wide, tanned square face capped by blonde hair cut military short to the point that most would go ahead and call him bald. He has a hooked nose, flattened nose bridge being hit in the face to often, shallow cheeks, thin cruel lips and his jaw is over pronounced. He's built like heavy weight fighter and as cute as a pit bull after it's gone through a tree cutter. He's thought process is rigid but his imagination is beyond the stars.

I hold up a hand to give Jimbo the Vulcan gesture of greeting, my second wind revving up. "Took you long enough."

"Ungrateful bitch," he says to me, almost good-naturedly. I don't disagree with him on semantics, especially if they're true.

I raise a brow but the cut bisecting it prevents the full expression of irony. "A week?"

Jimbo shrugs. "You got caught, Cher."

God, I hate it when he calls me 'Cher', like he's too lazy to say my complete name or it's too difficult for him to just say 'Sharon' or like we're friends and he's using his pet name for me.

"So what?" I add.

"Eddie had to figure out a way to salvage the mission and save your pathetic ass. Chambliss wanted to blow this place up with you in it days ago," he says. "Do the math."

Chambliss. What an asshole. But I understand the mechanics of it.

In a blur of motion and action, Jimbo takes out one of his guns and fires. Aiming so close to Morris's head that I nearly flinch. Morris, he doesn't. The bullet hits the wall behind him, no soft tissue hurt. Yet. If he is afraid, he shows no signs. In fact, he inhales and exhales slowly through his nose, eyes on me. Waiting.

I eye Jimbo wearily. He thinks killing people at random is a God-given right. He points his rifle at Morris while I hold out my cuffed hands toward him. "Uncuff me," I request sweetly. "Pretty please with a cherry on top?"

Morris doesn't even resist. How disappointing. A small ring with keys emerges from inside his fitted suit jacket. He steps forward, he unlocks all the cuffs, the metal hitting the table with a loud clack. I am free. He backs away, mutely. My ankles ache, my wrists hurt, the bones throb and my skin red-raw. I look at Morris, who doesn't even attempt to draw a hide-away knife and attack. Maybe he can kill with his good looks and cool-calm-collected self? But, then again, when you're on your own turf, and a gun pointed at your head, options are rather limited.

Jimbo raises his rifle at Morris's head, who continues to stands there like he's waiting for the bus and watching us dispassionately like a cyborg. "Whatta want me to do to him?"

"You're not _going_ to anything _to_ him," I say, watching the gun and Jimbo's trigger-happy finger, knowing full well the devastation that could happen in matter of breathes. I shove my hair out of my face with a hand. It's been days since I've had a shower. My head itches, my hair feels thick with dirt and layers of grime. I feel like a POW and I know what that feels like.

Morris looks at me, no expression, his face beautifully unreadable. I wave impatiently at Jimbo to toss me one of his Armalite AR-24 guns. After a thought, Jimbo complies. Thinking isn't his strong suit. That's why he's so useful in our little team. He rarely asks questions. He tosses the gun at me and I catch it easily. It feels good in my hand, like I'd been missing my real hand. Jimbo stares at me with a frown, like he's not sure where I might be pointing and aiming. I realize I've got it, unconsciously, subconsciously, pointed in his general direction. A woman's instincts, I guess.

"How many teams?"

"Two SRTs," he says out the side of his mouth. "What about him?"

I say nothing, gun at my side. Morris continues to wait so patiently for some end to come.

"To kill or not to kill. Pretty much an easy answer if you ask me. Easy clean up, too."

Morris watches me silently. He looks away, ready, waiting then he glances at me. _I am ready_, his eyes say boldly. He said that to me once, a year ago when our roles had been reversed, and I was the victor, but he'd slipped away from me. I feel a familiar woozy, a pressure growing inside me, like another presence has settled in the back of my mind. I shake my head.

"What's wrong with you, Cher—"

"Stop calling me that," I snap.

Jimbo laughs, his laughter amplified by the roar beyond. My disgust for him just grew by leaps and bounds but he lowers his weapon. "But it suits you." He gestures to Morris, still fixated on the kill. "If you have a problem, I don't."

I grit my teeth. "_That's_ my problem."

The smile evaporates. "You end him, or I will. Choice is yours."

"He could be useful to us alive."

"No, he won't," Jimbo says, and he's right. "He'll be a constant problem." His gaze settles intently on Morris. "Either way, he wants me to make sure it's done, by whomever."

'He', is Garret Chambliss, one of Surnow's protégé. I move around the table, closer to the door. Morris faces me. He doesn't try to resist or beg for his life. He doesn't hold out his arms in front of him. He doesn't beg or try to reason with us. He doesn't even give a nervous look. He is making this too easy. There is no terror in his eyes. Just rage, cold, verdant rage hemmed in. I'm not going to lie, I love it. That strength, the ego, those balls of steel.

He waits, as I had waited. He looks into me, and I look back at him. We have an understanding. Runner to chaser, but beyond that, I don't know. I know him. I feel his eyes crawling inside me like a virus. I want to look away but I won't. "Just do it already," he says, easy-breezy-peasy and unconcerned, "before I fall asleep at your lack of nerve."

What an impressive sonovabitch.

And God, do I really need to shoot a man like him?

Yes, I do. I have to. But I don't want to. I swallow hard, hesitating.

"Fine," I say, my voice hoarse and hollow. "Right…"

"You two always talk so much before offing someone?" This, from Morris, looking between us. "Time is precious. Stop wasting it bickering like two children over a candlestick."

Three is definitely a crowd. And candlestick? Jimbo steps forward and I see his profile. He is smiling like it's the best party he's ever been to. "You're so willing. How disappointing."

I raise my gun, finger on the trigger, tension…tension…flesh pressing in bone pushing against metal—

_Do not kill him_.

I freeze, my hand straining between my resistant intention and another's floating in my conscious. A voice, in the far distance, cushioned within time and space, it calls out to me. To stop.

Free will doesn't exist for Janus. Free will is a myth. How do I ask, _why_? How can I tell that voice in my head from a man thousands of miles away that I have no choice in this situation? That if I don't, Janus might question me and expose what has been carefully hidden from them. How can I tell him, just through thought and emotion, that what he asks isn't always possible?

But there is no answer to unimportant questions. Just the silence on the other end.

"What are you waiting for—"

"In such a hurry now," I say, taking his words and running away with them.

"The anticipation of my impending death is killing me," he draws out, not quite restive but heading there.

If not for his deadpan expression and flat vocal delivery, I would have thought he just cracked a joke. In the near distance, in the belly of the compound, all hell is breaking loose and everyone is waiting for me to pull the trigger. This is that scene is some action adventure movie and I think, why is the hero just standing there as the world is falling apart around his head? Why doesn't he just do something, even if he's outnumbered and outgunned?

Sometimes there is no answer. Just the silence. I don't shoot. My arm is beginning to cramp from the weight of the gun. Jimbo looks back at me. Everybody's watching, every one is waiting, for me.

Time keeps on slipping, away, through my fingers and it's time to get on with it.

Morris's eyes are all on me. Steady, always so steady.

How can I kill him but make it appear like that I am? The answer comes to me without any prompt.

Morris eyes the end of my gun, then my eyes behind it. He glances away, circles his gaze back to me. His expression is still calm, unruffled. A G-man to the very end. I can't look away, I _have_ to stare back, keep looking at him, to see him so maybe, just maybe his seeing me will make me feel more real.

Jimbo looks between us. When our world shakes again, he asks, "You gonna wrap up this Hallmark eye-fest moment? It's making me sick."

Jimbo's got a point. I aim at some place soft on his body that will hurt, that will push his ability to endure and bring him to the edge of death itself.

"I'm sorry." For once, I'm not lying. "I really am."

Morris relaxes. He smiles and you know what, he has a great smile. Nice teeth and yes, the corners of his eyes crinkle just enough to make me think he means it. What a great smile. I feel the impact to my tippy toes. Then, he lets a little bit of rage flood his pretty green eyes, his voice hot and charged.

"Fuck. You."

At the same time he speaks, I squeeze the trigger. Reverberation, a black bullet I cannot see spinning away from me, spinning toward Morris, slipping into the future.


End file.
